The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

“For literature.”

23

When I stepped outside I was greeted by an icy breeze sweeping up the streets, and I knew that autumn was tiptoeing its way into Barcelona. In Plaza Palacio I got on a tram that was waiting there, empty, like a large steel rat trap. I sat by the window and paid the conductor for my ticket.

“Do you go as far as Sarriá?” I asked.

“As far as the square.”

I leaned my head against the window and soon the tram set off with a jerk. I closed my eyes and succumbed to one of those naps that can be enjoyed only on board some mechanical monstrosity, the sleep of modern man. I dreamed that I was traveling in a train made of black bones, its coaches shaped like coffins, crossing a deserted Barcelona that was strewn with discarded clothes, as if the bodies that had occupied them had simply evaporated. A wasteland of abandoned hats and dresses, suits and shoes that covered the silent streets. The engine gave off a trail of scarlet smoke that spread across the sky like spilled paint. A smiling boss traveled next to me. He was dressed in white and wore gloves. Something dark and glutinous dripped from the tips of his fingers.

What has happened to all the people?

Have faith, Martín. Have faith.

As I awoke, the tram was gliding slowly into Plaza de Sarriá. I jumped off before it reached the stop and made my way up Calle Mayor de Sarriá. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at my destination.

…

Carretera de Vallvidrera started in a shady grove behind the red-brick castle of San Ignacio’s school. The street climbed uphill, bordered by solitary mansions, and was covered with a carpet of fallen leaves. Low clouds slid down the mountainside, dissolving into puffs of mist. I walked along the pavement and tried to work out the street numbers as I passed garden walls and wrought-iron gates. Behind them, barely visible, stood houses of darkened stone and dried-up fountains beached between paths that were thick with weeds. I walked along a stretch of road beneath a long row of cypress trees and discovered that the numbers jumped from eleven to fifteen. Confused, I retraced my steps in search of number 13. I was beginning to suspect that Señor Valera’s secretary was cleverer than she had seemed and had given me a false address, when I noticed an alleyway leading off the pavement. It ran for about fifty meters toward some dark iron railings that formed a crest of spears atop a stone wall.

I turned into the narrow cobbled lane and walked down to the railings. A thick, unkempt garden had crept toward the other side and the branches of a eucalyptus tree passed through the spearheads like the arms of prisoners pleading through the bars of a cell. I pushed aside the leaves that covered part of the wall and found the letters and numbers carved in the stone:

Casa Marlasca

13

As I followed the railings that ran round the edge of the garden, I tried to catch a glimpse of the interior. Some twenty meters along I discovered a metal door fitted into the stone wall. A large door knocker rested on the iron sheet, which was streaked with rust. The door was ajar. I pushed with my shoulder and managed to open it just enough to pass through without tearing my clothes on the sharp bits of stone that jutted out from the wall. The air was infused with the intense stench of wet earth.

A path of marble tiles led through the trees to a clearing covered with white stones. On one side stood a garage, its doors open, revealing the remains of what had once been a Mercedes-Benz and now looked like a hearse abandoned to its fate. The house was a three-story building in the Modernist style with curved lines and a crown of dormer windows coming together in a swirl beneath turrets and arches. Narrow windows opened on its façade, which was covered with reliefs and gargoyles. The glass panes reflected the silent passing of the clouds. I thought I could see the outline of a face behind one of the first-floor windows.

Without quite knowing why, I raised my arm and smiled faintly. I didn’t want to be taken for a thief. The still figure remained there watching me. I looked down for a moment and when I looked up again it had disappeared.

“Good morning!” I called out.

I waited for a few seconds and when no reply came I proceeded slowly toward the house. An oval-shaped swimming pool flanked the eastern side, beyond which stood a glass conservatory. Frayed deck chairs surrounded the pool. A diving board, overgrown with ivy, was poised over the sheet of murky water. I walked to the edge and saw that it was littered with dead leaves and algae rippling over the surface. I was looking at my own reflection in the water when I noticed a dark figure hovering behind me.

I spun round and met with a pointed, somber face, examining me nervously.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“My name is David Martín and Señor Valera, the lawyer, sent me.”

Alicia Marlasca pressed her lips together.

“You’re Señora de Marlasca? Doña Alicia?”

“What’s happened to the one who usually comes?” she asked.

I realized that Señora Marlasca had taken me for one of the articled clerks from Valera’s office and had assumed I was bringing papers to sign or some message from the lawyers. For a moment I considered adopting that identity, but something in the woman’s face told me that she’d heard enough lies to last a lifetime.

“I don’t work for the firm, Señora Marlasca. The reason for my visit is a personal matter. I wonder whether you would have a few minutes to speak about one of the old properties belonging to your deceased husband, Don Diego.”

The widow turned pale and looked away. She was leaning on a stick and I noticed a wheelchair in the doorway of the conservatory. I assumed she spent more time in it than she would care to admit.

“None of the properties belonging to my husband remain, Señor …”

“Martín.”